


put your arms around me, i am lost

by Kawaii_Kitty360



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Bad Ideas, Couch Sex, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, Hotel Sex, Infidelity, Multi, but like briefly because we don't care about that rn do we?, dub-con, how do they deal with this? get drunk, implied sexual activities, not-too-slowburn, old men fucking, real sexual activities, regrets and remorse, some overdue family time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-03-06 04:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18843244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaii_Kitty360/pseuds/Kawaii_Kitty360
Summary: a drink too many, a ratty old hotel room, splotchy memories of what happened, and how and why he woke up with Trevor on his arm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh boi another story whoops. i've had this sitting in my files for a while, since i had no idea if i was gonna finish it or not. still don't know for sure, but it won't be the first time i'm posting something i'll never finish ~~roblox _oof_ sound effect~~
> 
> i wanted this to be a slowburn but like, 
> 
> i am incapable
> 
> idk maybe it still will be because like, they're both emotionally constipated
> 
> we'll see
> 
> if you're familiar with me, then you know the drill- first time writing these boys so this will probably be OOC. apologies in advance. hope you enjoy regardless!

Okay, so Michael definitely had one-too-many drinks last night. Things got a little heated, and now, Michael was waking up in some dingy hotel, blinking the sleep from his eyes, but everything had an ethereal glow to it, so Michael was pretty sure he was dreaming. He had dreams like this often, waking up in a hotel somewhere south, nightmares from nine years ago. He was never much of a lucid dreamer, but those hotel dreams... they were something different.

The only real difference between those dreams and this one was the fact that he didn't 'wake up' to the smell of booze, vomit, and smoke, with the scent of sex still high in the air; this time, he 'woke up' to a tingly feeling in his left arm, a sore neck, a hangover that even the pale light seeping through the stained, gross-green curtains made worse, and Trevor asleep next to him, drooling all over his forearm. 

Michael might have vomited in his mouth a little at the sight and the implications it brought with it.

The first thing Michael did was swear off drinking, _forever_ \-- well, forever, after he drowned this memory and slammed it deep down to stay repressed for the rest of his life. The second thing he did was gently (or how gently he could manage with overwhelming fear and disgust overriding his system) pry his arm out from under Trevor's neck. The third thing he did was lock himself in the bathroom and stare at himself in the mirror in abject horror.

His neck was _covered_ in hickies. He looked like a high school student who just had sex for the first time. With an octopus. And that was just what he could see with his shirt still on. Who knew what he looked like below the collar.

Oh, God, what did he look like below the _belt?_

Michael might've vomited in the toilet this time.

What was Amanda going to think? If he came home in this position... 

This was so _fucked!_

Michael took an extra second to gargle with some of the shitty hotel tap water, just to wash the taste and feeling of vomit from his mouth, before he steeled himself and threw the bathroom door open.

His mouth was already open and a word was halfway out before he realized the bed was empty.

* * *

Thankfully, the awkward taxi ride with a driver who kept looking at his neck with either an impressed or condescending look on his face didn't take too long, and Amanda wasn't home when he arrived, which made things a little better. The real icing was the fact that he was able to get upstairs, unclothe, and get into the shower without so much as a peep from his kids. No questions about where he was, no looks at his neck, no fighting- just a quiet that amplified his pounding headache. It was almost relaxing, but as Michael scrubbed the feeling, the smell, the very memory of Trevor from his pores, his mind inevitably wandered to what fucked up situation arose to enable waking up in the same bed as _Trevor_ fucking _Philips_. 

He remembered going to a bar- maybe two or three?-, drinking a lot- shit, maybe too much-, Trevor mentioning a hotel around the corner; Michael parking, tires running over the curb; arguing? A fight, yelling, they were spitting in each other's faces, and then-

Then Trevor kissed him. And Michael...

Michael kissed him back.

Shhhhh _hit!_

Michael finished up in the shower and used his towel to wipe off the mirror, taking another look at his neck. After rinsing off, it didn't look _as_ bad, but they were still obviously hickies, and one was even a disgusting and disturbing shade of purple. One was scabbed over, where he was apparently bitten a little too hard. His collarbones were marked, too, and there was somehow even a mark under his left nipple. 

Overall, he looked like a thoroughly abused whore. 

God, he couldn't stop imagining how Amanda was going to react. She was going to flip out, accuse Michael of cheating again- with some _stripper_ , and Michael was just going to have to go with it because admitting that, as much as he _wished_ he'd fucked a stripper, he apparently fucked Trevor was-- _God_ \-- that was even _worse._ He would rather take the blow of fucking some random chick over the awkwardness that came from admitting he fucked _Trevor._

Michael clenched his fist and walked away to prevent himself from punching the mirror. 

Tying his robe around his hips, he deposited his clothes into the washer. He should've just tossed them in the trash. 

He didn't even wait until he was completely dry before he threw on the first thing he grabbed from his closet (a blue button-up that he left unbuttoned and cargo shorts) and went downstairs.

His first instinct was to grab the bottle on the end of the counter and drown himself in it, but his head was still pounding, so he settled for a glass of water and some pills from a bottle of ibuprofen that was probably long expired. He refilled the glass, plugged his earbuds into his phone, grabbed a pair of aviators, and made his way outside to relax by the poolside and hope to be burned to a crisp by the sun's rays. 

Oddly enough, he found himself looking at his phone a bit more than usual. He wasn't sure what he was really looking to find, but there was always a sinking disappointment when he looked. Something in the back of his mind told him he was waiting for Trevor's name to appear, but he squashed it down. He really should have grabbed the glass of liquor. 

He had just put his phone down for the umpteenth time, and took to finding shapes in the clouds (he mainly found penises and guns, but there was the occasional dinosaur or pair of lopsided tits among it), when a shadow moved quick through the corner of his eye, and his vision was filled with too-sweet iced coffee, with ice and everything. It was a little too cold to feel nice, and was already sticking to his skin. So much for a shower.

"Whoa, Jesus- what the _fuck?!_ " was already out of his mouth as he scrambled to sit up, ice falling into his lap, pulling his earbuds from his ears. His phone clattered to the ground, but that was overshadowed by the fact that there was a seething, red-eyed Amanda hovering over him, face screwed with pure murderous intent.

"You're an absolute _fucking shithead_ , Michael!!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ope here we go


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters are so short im so sorry

"Amanda, would you just-"

"I can't believe you!"

"Please, honey, listen-"

"You're such a _fuck!_ "

"It's not how it looks, 'Manda, please-"

"Shut the _fuck up,_ Michael!" 

Amanda slammed the trunk for the fifth time, glaring at Michael in rage, but her eyes were glistening and there was a quiver in her lip.

"You know, I knew you couldn't be faithful, I just _knew it._ But I was almost ready to trust you again, and then I see- I see--" she motioned to his neck, his chest; just all of him, with a frantic wave of her hands. "This! What the _fuck_ is this, Michael?!" 

"It's a misunderstanding, is what it is," Michael tried, moving to take Amanda's hand in his, but she pulled back, scowling. "Why don't you take your bags back inside, call the kids; I'll order us pizza, and we can talk about it while we wait. Sound good?" 

He really just said that so he can formulate a good explanation. She's seen enough of his bruises to know this wasn't a cause of a car accident, or the result of a full-on shootout, or a fist-fight, but maybe he could come up with something. Something that sounded real, and didn't involve sex with _anyone._

But Amanda's response was a firm, "No. You either tell me here, or you don't tell me at all." She knew his antics too well.

Michael wasn't the best at improv, but he was sure he could come up with something better. Something real, he reminded himself. Something that didn't involve him lying in bed with somebody other than Amanda. 

Something that didn't involve Trevor.

"It was Trevor."

Fucking _shit._

He could have laughed at the face she made, but he didn't. She paled about three shades and gawked at him- at least she looked more surprised than pissed off.

"I don't even know what happened," he blurted next and willed himself to just fucking stop talking. "One minute we were out drinking as buddies, and the next-"

The next, they were at the hotel. Michael was attempting to rent a room, and Trevor was holding onto his arm. Trevor was grinding on him before the door was open, sucking hickies into his neck before they made it inside. Clothes were off in a flurry, and Trevor--

Trevor had gotten on his knees.

_Christ._

Michael must've been pulling a face, because Amanda was, too, and she shuddered- probably at the mere thought of it. 

"So, you two..."

Michael begged her not to finish the sentence. She didn't.

"Yeah," he exhaled, running a hand over his face. "I mean, I think so, anyway. I don't remember much- I don't remember any of it. But if this," he motioned to himself, "is any indication, I'm pretty sure we did."

"God." She looked like she was going to be sick. That was understandable; Michael was about to be sick, too. "Really?"

"Look, I would have rather taken a stripper over Trevor. I would have gladly taken a _thousand_ strippers over Trevor fucking Philips." 

She looked back at her trunk, clearly contemplating. "I don't know, Michael. I know you were drunk, and it was Trevor, but..."

"If you still want to leave, that's fine." Michael rubbed his finger against his chest, the friction peeling off some of the sticky filth that still covered his skin and left his shirt stiff with sugar. "I don't even want to be around myself right now."

She reached forward and put a careful hand on his upper arm. "I'll tell the kids it's not as bad as I told them, but we are going to go stay somewhere else for a while." She paused, and then, "Rain check on the pizza?"

Michael smiled, but he knew it looked fake. "Sounds good."

She loaded the last of her bags into her car and waited for the kids. Michael took another shower as they packed, and waved goodbye to them in his bathrobe with a cigar in his mouth and the glass of liquor he'd been thinking about for the past two hours in his hand. He wasn't sure for how long he'd been on the porch, a breeze blowing through his towel-dried hair, but if he had to guess, he'd say about fifteen minutes before he forced himself back inside to get dressed and maybe, just maybe, get some sleep.

It was three days before he heard from Trevor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright this is where things pick up, but also where my writing hits the floor

Three days. Three days of silence filled by old movies, old music, old memories- old, old, _old._ That's all he was: old, and he was only getting older, and now he was just rotting in his empty house, mourning the empty bottle of liquor he finished halfway through day one. He laid in his bed for hours without consequence, doing nothing but thinking, replaying what little he remembered from 'that night'. 

Like the fact that Trevor gave amazing head, and he had a praise kink, and when Michael gave in and fucked his face, Trevor came in his pants like a middle schooler and it was so hot that Michael came almost immediately after, and Trevor had swallowed it _all._

Amanda occasionally checked in on him, messaging him to make sure he was still alive. Tracey and Jimmy messaged him a few times, too, also making sure that he was alive and, when he responded, asked him what happened. Michael didn't reply to those, even though their messages slowly toned down from demanding to a more mellow inquiry. Michael just had no explanation.

It was nearing 5 PM, and Michael had managed to put on something that he deemed fashionable enough to make a quick grocery run when his phone buzzed. His heart stuttered, as it always did, but he forced himself not to read what was on the screen until he was heading to the car.

He got shoes on, his hair relatively combed, misted a bit of cologne, grabbed his keys, and was locking the door before he glanced at the screen.

What awaited him nearly made him pass out.

**T**   
_ >we nd 2 tlk_

Michael waited, fingers itching to either immediately reply or huck his phone into his swimming pool, until he was in his car, buckled, with the keys in the ignition before he finally managed to type up something.

**M**   
_ >I was making a grocery run anyway. Where?_

Michael threw the car in reverse and made his way to the store, anxious and jittery the entire drive.

He parked, shut the car off, and scrambled for his phone.

**T**   
_ >ur hse is fine. ill b thr sn. grb me a snack whl ur thr_   
_ >>and booze bt im sre ur grbbing tht alrdy._

**M**   
_ >Okay. See u soon._   
_ >>If I'm not there by the time u get there, u know where the spare key is._

The trip was quick: just an in, buy liquor and a pack of beer, an assortment of various snack-foods, a pack of gum, a bottle of mouthwash, and a tube of toothpaste, and then he was gone. Any of the food he was going to buy to prepare real dinners could be put on hold. 

**T**   
_ >im ordering pzza so i hope ur hungry u fat fuck._

**M**   
_ >Fuck u, T._   
_ >>Sounds good._

Seeing Trevor's truck in his driveway filled him with a feeling he didn't quite know how to describe, and he grabbed the groceries and elbowed his way inside. 

"T?" he called, and heard a slam from the kitchen.

Trevor was raiding through his fridge and cabinets, barely passing Michael a glance as he set all his bags down. He put the pack of beer on the counter, the moment the case hit the marble, Trevor was on it, snatching it and ripping it open, grabbing one and popping the tab with a satisfying hiss. 

"Here," he said, offering the bag full of snacks, and Trevor set the can down to root through it and yank out the pack of red Twizzlers with an enthusiastic, manic chuckle. 

"Now this is what I'm talking about, Mikey," he cheered, ripping the pack open with his teeth. He grabbed his beer and motioned for Michael to follow. "Pizza's on its way." 

Michael put the bag with his mouthwash near the stairs before he grabbed the bottle of liquor, a glass, and the bag of snack-foods, lugging them into the living room, where Trevor had already made himself at home. 

"Wait, T," Michael sighed as he sat on the couch and set the bottle and glass on the table next to him, staring at the man's face with a frown. Trevor was flipping through channels, slurping annoyingly at his beer, ignoring him. "Aren't we gonna talk about-"

"Nope," he burped, leaning back and relaxing deep into the couch. "Not until the pizza gets here and I've had that entire pack of beer."

"Is that really what you need right now? More booze?" Michael could feel himself getting increasingly more agitated. "Don't you remember the last time we were drunk in the same room?"

Trevor met his gaze, finally, and Michael held his breath as Trevor's eyes flicked across his neck. "Guess you're not drinking tonight, then."

Mother _fucker._

"That's it, T." Michael slapped the remote out of Trevor's hands and turned the projector off. "It's been three days, you come over saying you want to talk, so we're talking!"

Trevor was staring at him again, with the look he got in his eye when he was about to rip somebody's spleen out their throat. Michael clenched his hands into fists, adrenaline spiking so fast he was nearly dizzy with it. 

"I said," he began, voice surprisingly level, "that we're going to wait for the pizza to arrive, so we're! Waiting!"

There was a knock, as if on cue.

"Well," Michael started, standing and bowing exaggeratedly. "Pizza's here."

Trevor ordered it under Michael's name, which wasn't very surprising, and once it was all said and paid for, Michael thanked the young man and tipped him a fair amount to apologize for whatever Trevor might have said over the phone to scare or disturb him. After that, Michael carried the pizza to the living room and felt the distinct urge to open the box and dump it on Trevor's balding head. He didn't, though, as he would have to then worry about Trevor's rage and the prospect of, provided he was still alive, cleaning the carpet and couch of grease stains and bits of sausage that he would still end up finding months later. 

So, instead, he sat right back where he was before the pizza arrived, and set the pizza on the footrest in front of him, as Trevor was lounging across the other one, once again flipping through the channels. 

"Don't be a pig," Trevor said, motioning at the pizza, but not once taking his eyes off the screen. "C'mon, hand it over."

"Get it yourself," Michael huffed, but stood briefly to pick up and move the footrest more towards the middle of the couch for both of them to access. Trevor flipped it open, almost haphazardly, and grabbed a piece. Michael watched with morbid curiosity as he, ever true to his past ways, shoved over half of the fresh, steaming pizza into his mouth and bit, the cheese coming off in a hot, gooey mess. The sight alone made Michael's mouth burn, but Trevor seemed unfazed. _Fuckin' psychopath,_ Michael thought as he decided to make himself that glass of liquor. 

As he went for it, a sudden movement from his right made him stop and spin immediately, almost flattening himself to the side of the couch as his hand flew to his side on instinct, just to meet Trevor's eyes as he stopped, halfway, in a position to get up. "Christ, Mikey, can't a guy just get off the couch?"

"Shut up," Michael snapped, rubbing a hand over his face in mild embarrassment. There was really no need for him to be so on edge, but it was hard not to be when you were sitting next to a deranged sociopath. Trevor laughed as he resumed his quest to the kitchen, and Michael tried to slow his erratic heartbeat as he poured his drink with a slightly shaky hand. 

Trevor returned with the case of beer, clearly making good on his word about finishing the entire pack before they talked about anything. 

After he cracked another one open, he reached up to itch absent-mindedly at his arm, the sleeve of his white v-neck riding up a bit, and Michael's eyes fell on the tattoo that rested against the tanning, blemished skin.

He remembered seeing it 'that night', too; faintly, but still so noticeable in the pale lights from the street below, and the moon, casting shadows and illuminating parts of the room. Trevor's eyes shone in the light; Michael remembered thinking that they were goregeous, though he's pretty sure he told Trevor that his eyes 'looked like somebody grated gold and moldy cheese in a pile of mud and feces and jammed them in your eye sockets.' Michael wasn't the most poetic when sober, and definitely not when he was drunk, but Trevor had snapped at him about shutting up and kissed him hard.

Michael had laid a hand on the tattoo, and Trevor jolted, pulling away; Michael was reading it, and he remembered asking him about it. Asking him, 'You really got a tattoo for me?', as if he wasn't touching the physical proof right then, and Trevor had flushed, reiterated the fact that he told Michael to shut up, and then Michael was kissing him again and Trevor was kissing him back and he could taste himself on Trevor's tongue and it was--

In the now, Trevor was snapping his fingers in front of Michael's face. "Hey, Michael, Jesus; you're not having a stroke on me, are you, big boy?"

Big boy. Trevor had called him that 'that night', too, when Michael had ripped his own shirt off and Trevor was staring at him hungrily, sweats pulled down slightly over his hips as he fisted his cock lazily beneath the cloth. 'Come and get it, big boy,' he had said; or something akin, but the line and the shark-like grin that accompanied it shot sparks through his spine and boy, did he go and get it.

"Fuck you, T," Michael grunted, smacking Trevor's hand out of his face, and suddenly the room was way too stuffy and the TV was way too loud. Being this close to Trevor, alone, in his own, empty house, was bringing up a lot more memories than a man who was black-out drunk when 'everything' went down should remember. 

"What? I can't be concerned when my slightly-obese, pig-faced best friend suddenly blanks out and turns the color of these Twizzlers?" He waved one especially limp one in Michael's face for extra effect, and pulled it back when Michael went to swat at it, too. He took a vicious bite out of it, ripping it apart unevenly and causing some of the strands to be longer than the others, and Michael took a deep swig of his drink. 

"I'll feel better the sooner we talk."

Trevor held his arms out and said, "What? We're talking right now, aren't we?"

"Why did you kiss me?"

Trevor faltered and was quiet for a long second. "What?"

Michael wasn't looking at him; in fact, he found the colors that the liquor turned when it caught a certain angle of the light rather interesting. "After we went out to drink. I took you to a hotel, and you kissed me." He looked up, and met Trevor's widened eyes. "Why?"

"You were talking too much," Trevor quipped, but it was a little too quick; a little too shaky. "I had to get you to shut up somehow."

Michael couldn't argue with that possibility; they had been arguing. "We argue all the time, T." Something in the back of his head told him to stop while he was ahead; he got an answer, and he may not've been happy with it, but it was answer enough. He should just let it go, but with a swallow, he didn't. "What was so different about this time?"

"You expect me to be responsible for my actions, Michael?" He could tell Trevor's blood pressure was spiking. "I was drunk, and you were, too. Why'd you kiss me back? Huh? Got a fucking answer for that, fuckface?" 

"Sure I do," Michael started casually, leaning back as he grabbed the bottle. "I was drunk."

Trevor snorted. "Yeah, that's an understatement."

"I doubt you were any better."

"That's not the point." Trevor adjusted himself on the couch, picking up another slice of pizza. 

"Then what is?" 

For a brief second, Trevor looked like he had nothing to say. However, Trevor always had something to say, and snapped, "Fuck off, Michael," quick enough to cover his moment of speechlessness. 

But not quick enough that Michael didn't notice it. 

"What's the point, T?" Michael pressed, setting his glass and the bottle down slowly, never taking his eyes off of the man sitting next to him, who was munching on his slice of pizza for no reason other than to avoid answering the question. 

"There is no point," he finally responded.

"Sure there is. There has to be."

"No, Michael, there doesn't _have to be._ " Trevor snarled, tossing the rest of his slice into the pizza box and wiping his greasy fingers on his cargo pants.

Michael raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and that must've been the last straw, because Trevor was standing up, arms flying out in a wide gesture that could only be translated to an invitation to fight. "You want to know the fucking point, Michael?!"

"Yeah, actually!" Michael stood, too, gesturing at Trevor now; a gesture for him to continue. "Enlighten me, asshole!"

"The point is that you- _YOU!!_ \- kissed _me_ back!! You didn't fucking have to!"

"You didn't fucking have to kiss me in the first place!!"

They were up in each other's faces now, the alcohol on Trevor's breath wafting over his face and assaulting all of his senses at once. Michael's fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides, and he really, _really_ wanted to punch him in his stupid, ugly, fucked-up face. 

His fist reared. Trevor never broke eye contact as he raised his hand to catch Michael's fist and twist, bringing Michael to the side with a yowl in pain. 

"Fucking asshole," Michael spat, and threw his other fist. Trevor caught that, too, twisting it in the same fashion, but the opposite way. Hissing in pain once again, Michael's body contorted until he was upright in an attempt to balance the uncomfortable feeling of having his wrists twisted in the wrong ways. "Let go of me!"

Surprisingly, and horrifyingly, Trevor's eyes lacked the distinct emotion of rage and bloodlust, shining instead with something else. If Michael didn't know better, he would've thought it was mirth, but Trevor was next to incapable of that, unless he was mutilating a corpse or some other fucked up shit. 

Oh, God. Maybe he was thinking about all the fun ways he was going to rip Michael's skin from his bones. Michael struggled harder. 

"Calm down, sugar tits," Trevor hushed in a voice that gave Michael a good bout of goosebumps. It definitely did not make Michael calm down. "Seriously, Mikey, chill the fuck out."

"Trevor, I swear to God-"

"Michael," Trevor said again, this time sounding impatient. "Stop. Struggling. _Now._ "

And Michael did, in only fear of his own life. Trevor hummed in the back of his throat and let up on his grip, easing the pain in Michael's wrists. 

"Good boy. Now, I believe we were in the middle of a conversation, until you so rudely decided to swing at me. Big mistake, by the way, but I'm sure you knew that."

"Why did you kiss me?" Michael growled, and Trevor blinked.

"What's it matter?"

"Why did you kiss me?" he asked again, a little harsher.

"I said, 'what does it matter', Michael?" Trevor clenched his teeth.

"Why did you kiss me?!" he roared.

"Because I fucking wanted to, okay, you fat scaley fuck?!" Trevor snarled. "I wanted to kiss you so bad it fucking hurt! Is that what you wanted to hear? Huh?!" 

Michael blanked.

Trevor asked, "Why did you kiss me back?" and Michael wasn't sure if he had an answer. But Trevor knew that, and, glowering, released Michael's wrists and sat back down on the couch. "You in-denial, pig-faced, selfish asshole. Sit down. I still have a case to finish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eek


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay yeah, this is where uh
> 
> this is where things happen.
> 
> thank you all for reading btw i live for your comments and i hope you enjoy this cuz i'm uhhhhhhh
> 
> i'm kinda worried things are mega ooc here but i hope you enjoy anyway uhghfjhfjhdfj

As Trevor lazily sipped on his beer, Michael swirled his glass of liquor. They sat in silence, aside from Trevor's snide comments at the TV, or their laughs at whatever stupid shit they were watching. However, they never actually initiated any further conversation, the words said with their most recent argument still hanging in the air.

The alcohol had settled deep in Michael's belly, warm and familiar, and he blamed his drink for the fact that he couldn't get Trevor's words out of his head.

' _Because I wanted to_ ' is what he said, which was very Trevor, since Trevor always did what he wanted with little to no regard of anything else. And he called _Michael_ selfish. But that must not be all of it, because Trevor was still finishing his case, which meant they had more to talk about. 

Michael couldn't imagine what more there was to say.

"You know what, Mikey," Trevor suddenly piped, and Michael looked up with a hum, "you need to pull your head out of your ass."

"What?"

"Come on, we never talk anymore. Tell me what's on your mind. Tell me what you _really_ think about me."

"What I think about you?" Michael tittered, a little hysterically. Oh, shit. Maybe he was a little more drunk than he thought he was. "You're a psychotic, neurotic, cannibalistic sociopath! And if I gotta be honest, you scare the shit out of me on a good day!"

"Nah, no no no no no, tell me something _new_ \- tell me something I don't know." Trevor swished his beer can, jostling the liquid inside. Michael glanced at the case and wondered how many he had left. He wasn't keeping track. However, he didn't sound nearly as drunk as he should've been if he had finished a whole case of beer. Something clicked, then, and Michael's heart began to race at the prospect of being the only one drunk between the two of them.

"What is this?" Michael mumbled, glaring at his cup. "What are you trying to get out of me?"

"Nothin', I'm just making friendly conversation." Trevor drank the rest of his beer and crushed the can in his hand. "I'm hurt you think I would be trying to exploit you while you're intoxicated. What kind of friend do you take me for?"

"The shitty kind," Michael retorted, and Trevor cackled maniacally. Maybe he was a little drunk, too. "I'm serious, T. You're the worst kind of friend anyone could have."

"You know, Mikey, I should be offended by that. I have been nothing but wonderful to you since I came to this God-forsaken place."

"That is a goddamn lie and you know it."

"Yeah, maybe, but who cares? The point is, Michael, I am a delight to be around and you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to see that."

"Whatever, T."

Trevor bent to get another beer from the case, dropping the empty one on the floor next to him. He cracked it open with one finger before he even settled back against the couch, sighing louding and obnoxiously as he rolled his shoulders and shimmied until he was comfortable. Once settled, he took a long, equally as loud, twice as obnoxious, vocal sip of his beer, slurping. The act, hilariously, kicked him into a coughing fit, and Michael nearly spilt his liquor laughing so hard. He still reached across to pat Trevor on his back so he didn't choke.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!" Trevor wheezed, still coughing, swatting Michael away. "You sadistic bastard. You like seeing your friends in pain?"

The words sounded weirdly familiar, and images of a dark room and the sounds of labored breathing flashed in Michael's head. Unable to actually catch what his brain was supplying, he ignored it, shook his head, and waved his hand. "No, man, of course not. I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Trevor bit, but he looked like he had more to say. Opened his mouth to say it, too, but seemed to decide against it last second. Michael raised an eyebrow. It wasn't often that Trevor held his tongue. It was evident, too-- he had this kind of constipated look on his face, as if he had to try as hard as he could not to say what he wanted to.

"Whoa," Michael began, and Trevor glanced at him. "You look like you need to take a massive shit. What's on your mind, buddy?"

"Shut up! It's none of your business."

There was a moment before Michael shrugged, leaned back, and relaxed into the couch. "Okay. You know, if you say so."

"I do, in fact, say so, Michael," he growled.

Michael threw his hands up in surrender. "Hey, man, I ain't gonna push ya. Excuse me for being concerned."

Trevor fake-laughed at that. "Oh, yeah. Michael Townley, the epitome of concern and good-companionship. I salute thee!"

"No need to be an ass about it," Michael huffed, taking a sip from his glass. There was a weird feeling under his skin, something that itched and told him to scoot a little closer to the man on the couch, but he ignored it. They were arguing- Trevor didn't deserve to be sat closer to.

...Michael thought as he totally didn't move closer under the guise of adjusting his position on the couch. If Trevor noticed, he didn't say anything, but he totally didn't notice, because the execution was smooth and he was staring at the screen anyway.

Trevor kicked idly at the case of beer, and Michael blinked at it. "How much d'you have left?"

Trevor looked at the beer in his hand and at the pile that Michael couldn't see beside him. "Not enough," he replied vaguely, and Michael huffed a little.

"So, does that mean we can actually talk now?"

Trevor licked his lips. Michael totally didn't follow the motion. "Talk about what, exactly?"

"This? Us? What happened that night?" And then he paused, and pointed at Trevor, a little accusingly. " _You're_ the one who said we needed to talk."

Trevor leaned back with a loud sigh, kicking his feet up and crossing his ankles. "You're right I did, sugartits." He looked at his can again before leaning to set it on the ground and adjust his position, so he was facing Michael. Their legs were almost touching. "What do you remember."

Too much, Michael wanted to say. Too much and too little. He remembered just enough to leave him curious and wanting, in many different ways.

But Trevor didn't need to know that. 

So with a noncommittal shrug, he asked, "Why?" and watched an irritated look cross Trevor's face. Before Trevor could snap (both mentally and physically: Michael's neck), Michael pat the couch a little to catch his attention and clarify, "I remember some."

"Some?"

"Okay, I remember a lot. I remember the beginning, some of the middle, and none of the end. How much do _you_ remember? You couldn't have been in a better position than I."

"On the contrary, my scaly friend, I got nowhere near as shitfaced as you."

"Bullshit."

"What would you know? You were so busy drinking enough to throw out _both_ our livers- which isn't saying much- that you ignored not only me, but all the beautiful women around, which _is_ saying much, because you are the saddest, horniest man I know. Wait, no, I think Lester is just a little sadder than you."

"Fuck off, T," Michael snorted and shoved him hard enough to send him rocking into the couch arm. Having not been ready for the assault, Trevor readjusted himself, complaining about Michael's abusive tendencies, but all Michael could think about was how warm Trevor's leg was pressed against his own.

"Don't hate the messenger, Mikey," Trevor snarked, and Michael went to shove him again, but Trevor tensed and moved about as much as a brick wall, despite Michael putting all his weight into it. "That was kind of pathetic," he drawled, placed his hand on Michael's bicep, and _pushed._ Michael hit the couch with a grunt, barely managing to keep his cup upright. 

"Yeah, well, apparently everything I do is pathetic, so no surprise there." 

Trevor blinked down at him, and then he slowly started shaking his head. "You sad, self-loathing sack of shit. Get up."

"Why."

"Because I fucking told you to- now get up." Trevor tugged on his sleeve, and Michael let himself get pulled upright. "Good. Now, Michael, I know things are rough. You're rich and in a loveless marriage; your kids are ungrateful and hate your guts;"-

"Gee, thanks," Michael groaned.

-"nobody loves you, and the only person who will listen to you complain is a shrink who couldn't care less. I get it. Your life is pitiful, and your existence means nothing. But there is one thing that you can count on."

"What, you showing up on my doorstep no matter how far I run?" Michael quipped sarcastically, and felt exasperated when Trevor grinned and snapped his fingers.

"Exact-o-mundo!" he sang and Michael sighed as he dropped his head in his hands. "If nothing else, I will be a constant figure in your constantly-descending life."

"What a relief." It was a sarcastic remark, but Trevor clapped him on the back like he thought it was genuine.

"What else are best friends for?" And then he plucked the glass out of Michael's hand, leaned across him, grabbed the bottle of liquor still on the small table next to the couch, and refilled the cup. He put the bottle back, and, with a grunt, leaned back to recline and kick his legs across Michael's lap, handing him back the cup. 

Michael drank almost half of it in the first drink, and Trevor whistled. "You maaay wanna slow down there, Mike- you're not give me enough chance to catch up."

"Catch up? You're almost done with the case!"

"And that was probably your last refill of the bottle!" Trevor motioned, and Michael glanced at it. There was probably enough left for half a cup. Michael looked at his own glass with a frown. Did he really already drink that much? "You may have a bit of a problem."

"You _may_ wanna shut up about it," Michael quipped, and Trevor raised an eyebrow. 

"You know, I feel like that was very uncalled for."

"Yeah, whatever," Michael said into his glass before taking another sip and looking at the TV. Despite doing so, he could still feel Trevor's gaze on his face, seering hot and demanding attention. Michael resisted the urge to look at him, rubbing his thumb against the glass for something to do as Trevor pressed his legs harder into Michael's lap. He had been holding his arms above Trevor's legs since he moved into the position, but Michael finally had enough of avoiding it and finally rested his wrists on Trevor's shins. 

They still needed to talk, Michael blearily remembered, and he glanced at Trevor to see him finally looking at the screen with another- or the same- beer in his hands. "You said you weren't that drunk, right? So, does that mean you remember it all?"

Trevor took a long sip from the can. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. There are some blank spots, I'll tell you that much."

"But otherwise-"

"Yes, otherwise, I remember everything. I remember almost every Goddamn second _otherwise,_ and you know what, Michael? You're lucky that you don't remember _shit_ because that night was a rollercoaster you were not- and are not- _near_ ready to ride."

"What makes you say that?"

Trevor gave him a once-over and chorlted. "Your reactions to everything so far, M, is what makes me say that."

Michael paused. "I told you I remember some."

"Yeah, everything unimportant."

Unimportant? Now things were getting interesting, and Michael couldn't help but feel Trevor was right. This definitely was a rollercoaster Michael wasn't ready to ride.

But he wanted to know. Hell, with Curiousity burning in veins, it felt like he _needed_ to know.

"Tell me, then."

Trevor blanched. "What."

"Tell me," Michael repeated. "Remind me of all these 'important parts'."

He stuttered out a, "Fuck no," and Michael rolled his eyes.

"Why not? If you're so mad about me not remembering, why won't you remind me?"

"Because that-- fuck you, that's why! I'm not gonna remind you of something you shouldn't even remember in the first place!"

"Well, if I _shouldn't_ remember it, why get upset that I _don't_ remember it?!"

"Shut up! Fuck off!"

Michael couldn't help it- he started laughing, and Trevor smacked his arm a few times. "Stop laughing, you annoying prick!"

"You are so," Michael began, flailing his arm to deflect and hit Trevor back, still laughing. "Goddamn. Bipolar!"

"You want me to remind you, Michael?" Trevor snarled. "You want me to remind you, just so you don't remember again, and then get all pissy tomorrow?!"

"Yeah, asshole, I want you to remind me!"

Trevor surged, wrapping his fist in Michael's shirt, and pulled him so close their noses were nearly touching. The adrenaline and booze and proximity was making Michael's head spin, and he struggled to keep his eyes connected with Trevor's.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he growled, and that, ironically, was about all the warning Michael got before Trevor tugged him closer, and slammed their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter yall
> 
> next chapter shit hits
> 
> and shit hits _hard_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so, because i write randomly and don't proofread or reread the stuff i write in previous chapters, i most likely mention stuff and forget to mention it again so in the event that happens uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> point it out to me at some point, and i'll find time to go back in an edit it or something jhfjdhfjdshfjfh
> 
> anyway uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeah.
> 
> have fun.
> 
> also i can't write smut for the life of me, but once things get hot and heavy i swear things will be better than this ijhgjhj

"Trevor-"

"Shut up."

"Trev- T, wait, please-"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up! You're the one who wanted to do this!" 

Michael was on his back, one leg on the couch and the other hanging off the couch, toes digging into the carpet. Trevor was hovering over him, caging him in and leaving him helpless. One hand was alarmingly close to his neck, knuckles grazing his skin, and the other had one of Michael's arm pinned above him. Michael's free arm was shoving helplessly on Trevor's chest, fruitlessly trying to keep him at bay.

Michael was struggling to keep his head, a pounding behind his eyes and darkness swarming at the edges of his vision. He could taste blood in the back of his throat, and the fire in his stomach only grew.

Trevor's words bounced in his skull. Want this? _Did_ Michael want this? A part of him did- it _really_ did, but another part was screaming with rage, a cadence of regret. 

Michael could barely recognize the words he was saying. "I know, I know- I-- I do, T, but- 'Manda, Amanda, I--"

" **Amanda!** Doesn't love you no more! Not like I have. Not like I _do._ "

There was a pause. Michael licked his lips, and Trevor's eyes followed the motion with renewed hunger, and Michael breathed through another wave of hot, black lust. It took him a second to respond, practically vibrating with adrenaline. "Y-You love me..?"

Trevor answered without a moment's hesitation. "You think I'd stick around this long if I didn't?"

It was Michael, this time, who pulled Trevor down to kiss him, hard and sloppy, and Trevor groaned in the back of his throat as his grip on Michael's wrist tightened and he kissed Michael back with just as much fervor and oh god, Michael was going to lose it. "God, T," Michael breathed against his lips, and he felt Trevor shiver. The hand next to his neck- Trevor's left hand- uncurled from its fist, fingers ghosting across his neck in a tender caress that sent goosebumps down his arms. Michael's jaw tilted on reflex, giving Trevor's fingertips more skin to dance across, and he practically choked down a moan when Trevor forced his tongue down Michael's throat, and when Trevor canted his hips down to grind against him, he all but lost it.

They rut against each other like a couple of teenagers, Michael's free hand- his right hand- reached around to cup T's ass and push them closer, applying more friction and amplifying the pleasure that spiked through his spine. Trevor's grip was still firm on his left wrist, and even as he flexed and fought against it, the grip only tightened. Trevor's free hand had latched onto Michael's hip at some point, squeezing and keeping him pinned against the couch, but Michael couldn't find the will to care, too lost in the pleasure of Trevor's erratic humping.

God, he couldn't believe the heat already pooling in his stomach, and a pathetic-sounding whimper pulled from his throat just to be swallowed by Trevor.

Oh, wait. Wait a minute, that-- that wasn't the right kinda heat.

"T," Michael gasped, turning his head. Trevor took to kissing his neck, just under his earlobe, and, God, Michael really was gonna lose it. "I-- I think I'm gonna-"

"Yeah?" he husked, nipping Michael's ear teasingly. "Do it, come on."

"T- Trev- Trevor, I'm--"

"Come on, Michael-"

"I'm about to vomit."

A lot of things happened in that moment. Once Trevor realized what Michael had said, he nearly flew off of Michael and gave him enough room to scramble off the couch and beeline for the kitchen. Michael scrambled, hands finding purchase on the kitchen counter, and he heaved, hunching over the sink and vomiting.

"Now _that_ is a mood killer," Trevor remarked somewhere behind him, and Michael flipped him off between heaves. It was a minute before he actually felt okay enough to groan, push away from the sink, and run the water to wash the filth away. Trevor was quiet behind him, to the point where Michael thought he already left.

But he didn't, and when Michael took a handful of water and washed out his mouth, Trevor let out a loud yawn, and pulled another Twizzler from the pack.

"Not to cut this lovely night short, but I'll be taking my leave now," he announced, and Michael didn't look back at him.

"Yeah," he ground out instead, still hunched over the sink. "That's probably for the best."

When silence filled the kitchen, Michael was sure he had left that time, only for a hand to clap him on the back, near the top of his spine, fingers grazing the back of his neck. "Sweet dreams, pork chop."

He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and by the time Michael opened his mouth to say something in return, his front door was already shutting, slamming Michael back into reality, and as another wave of nausea nearly knocked him off his feet, all he could think about was his empty home and how Goddamn lonely he actually was. 

It was 9 when he finally climbed into bed, but it was well past noon when he woke up.

* * *

The whir of the blender sounded like nails against a chalkboard, and the green concoction tasted twice as worse, but it was supposed to help-- or something like that. Honestly, Michael would've rathered taken another glass of liquor and another stale ibuprofen over some nasty health drink any day, but he drank all his liquor the night before-- or most of it, he soon found out when he went to the living room to relax and found the mess he was in charge of cleaning up.

The pizza box had been abandoned with two and a half slices left, and as much as Michael would've loved to have one, they were most likely bad and he didn't want to make himself feel any worse. If he really wanted pizza, he'd just order another box and pig out by himself.

God, he was so pathetic.

He took the box first and tipped it into the trash can, crushing it to leave more room in the bin. 

Then he returned to the living room to clean up all the cans, and only when he grabbed the case of beer, treating it as if there was still half a case left, did he falter. 

"Christ," he said, lowering himself onto the couch and staring at the box, as if his eyes were playing tricks on him. " _Christ._ "

And when he threw the box, it flipped and landed, hollowly, on the carpet where he had picked it up, nothing but an empty shell with its remains scattered around the room.

Trevor had finished the case. Trevor finished the _fucking case_ and they didn't talk. They didn't say a _damn thing!_

"Fucking Trevor," he spat, standing and storming into the kitchen, reaching under the sink to pull out a trash bag, popping it open before he marched back into the living room to begin cleaning up.

Once all the cans were clean, both that bag and the kitchen trash tied off to be taken out later, Michael fished out his phone and began typing.

**M**  
_ >You finished the fucking case._

If Michael said he wasn't itching to look at his phone as it blasted music on the small table while he vacuumed the carpet, he'd be lying, but if he said he was disappointed to see that after two hours, Trevor still hadn't responded, it would be the only 100% truthful thing to come out of his mouth in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god this chapter is really lame i probably got a lot of y'alls hopes up, i apologize and won't cockblock yall next time
> 
> i mean i hope, anyway.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~i also might be trying to drag this into a slowburn simply because i want it to be but i'll probably just cut myself short here after another few chapters like--~~
> 
> ~~this is torture for all of us~~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops family time  
> idk what this chapter is- filler i guess? lmao
> 
> also idk how to write amanda so i hope its like,,,,, good. i guess.

It was, once again, later into the day when Michael decided to make another grocery run, this time to actually pick up groceries that he had forgone grabbing the other night. That and another bottle of liquor, since his had been so quickly consumed once again.

He needed another pack of Redwoods, too, now that he was thinking about it, though he wasn't sure where his last pack had gone. 

Man, maybe he really did have a problem.

Once again fully dressed, Michael grabbed his phone and his keys and began out the door when his phone began ringing in his pocket. He nearly jumped out of his skin, heart skipping a beat as a wave of deja vu passed over him. Taking in a breath to steel his nerves, he pulled out his phone and blanched at the screen.

He answered the call.

"Hey."

"Hey," his wife hummed on the other end. "How are you doing?"

"Good," he responded, hoping it didn't sound so strained. God, he was the absolute opposite of 'good'. "How are you? How are the kids?"

"They're... they're good. Confused, I think, but aren't we all?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, fiddling with his keys. There was a lump in his throat that he swallowed around. "I miss you. All of you."

"Oddly enough," she began with a playful lilt to her tone, "I think they miss you too."

"Come home," he blurted, and Amanda paused.

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know, Michael--"

"Hey, let's go out to eat tonight. All of us. My treat."

She scoffed a little, good-naturedly. "Shouldn't it always be?"

Before Michael could respond, she hummed and said, "Okay. I'll tell the kids to be ready by 8. Is that good for you?"

"Yeah," Michael chirped, pulling the phone away to look at the time. 7 o'clock. Perfect. "Yeah, sounds good. Hey, don't forget to text me the name of your hotel."

"Why on Earth would I do that?" she quipped, and Michael chuckled.

"See you tonight, 'Mand."

"Yeah. See you."

And for the second night in a row, Michael didn't buy groceries.

* * *

"You look amazing."

It might've been an automatic response, but seeing his wife dolled up, in a beautiful dress he must've bought her at some point, for the first time in almost a week, the words felt almost genuine. Amanda got that look in her eye that told Michael there was going to be a fight, but she blinked, smiled, and the look was almost gone.

"Thank you, Michael," she hummed as she slid into the passenger seat. Tracey and Jimmy, both clean and wearing their own fancy outfits- Tracey in a cocktail dress and Jimmy in a white button up, wearing dark blue dress pants and a tie to match- slipped into the back seats, and muttered a greeting to Michael in almost-unison.

"Hey, you both look great, too." Michael glanced in the rearview mirror to see them both on their phones. 

"Thanks, Daddy," Tracey hummed, and Jimmy waved his hand at the mirror.

"Yeah, thanks."

"No problem. So, where do you kids wanna go tonight? Burger Shot?"

Michael almost laughed at the horrified look on their faces, and when Amanda reached out to slap his arm, he pulled back and actually laughed. 

"I'm kidding! I reserved us a table someplace nice. You're gonna love it."

"God, you know, the worst part about that is that you totally _would_ take us out to Burger Shot and call it a 'dinner'," Jimmy snorted, and Michael shot a look in the mirror, unsurprised to see Jimmy looking at his phone.

"Kids, be nice," Amanda reprimanded, and Tracey made an affronted noise.

"I haven't said anything!"

"Hey, let's just enjoy the evening for once, okay?" Michael called, and the car fell silent. "I know things are a little shaky right now-"

Tracey snorted, "More like always."

" _But,_ " Michael powered on, "I don't want that hindering our time together, okay?"

"Sounds good to me," Jimmy grunted, and Tracey hummed in response. Amanda was quiet, but when Michael reached out to her, she squeezed his hand in hers, and that was enough for him.

* * *

Dinner was going amazing, all things considered. Things got a little tense at times, like when Michael tried to order some alcohol for him and Amanda and his lovely wife decided to blurt that they better not, since Michael had an 'alcohol problem', causing the waiter to awkwardly slip away as the two got in a minor argument. 

But aside from that, things were going well. Things stayed relatively civil, and it was nice to catch up with his family. Even if they lived in the same house, they never really hung out much, and it felt nice to spend time with them. Especially after being apart.

Everyone had their food and was munching on it through small conversation, Tracey and Jimmy primarily on their phones but occasionally supplying words of their own, which was nice as well, because Michael knew if he and Amanda had a two-way conversation for too long things would eventually take a hostile turn. The occasional input from their kids was enough to reset their rising blood pressures.

It was about an hour into dinner when Michael's phone rang.

Feeling it buzz in his pocket made him hum in surprise, pulling his fork out of his mouth and grabbing his napkin with one hand, reaching into his pocket to pull his phone out with the other. Wiping his mouth off, he checked the screen and knew, for a fact, that he paled in response.

Amanda was staring at him, while he stared at the screen, where an unexpected sight met him.

**Incoming Call from: T**

He was not answering that. No way in hot Hell was he answering that.

"Who is it?" Amanda asked, and Michael let it ring. When the screen finally disappeared, Michael sighed and pocketed it once more. 

"Nobody important," he responded, and Amanda frowned, brows furrowing. She look like she wanted to push it, but she didn't. Michael was grateful that she didn't, because he was sure that if she knew who it was, she'd take the kids and leave again and this time they'd probably not come back. 

To his additional surprise, his phone buzzed twice, and Michael twitched because why the hell would Trevor call him, and then leave him a _voicemail._

Michael fought the urge to grab his phone right then and there, waiting a few minutes before wiping his mouth once again and standing. The table's attention was on him, and Michael muttered a 'Be right back' before making his way to the bathrooms.

Once there, Michael slipped into a stall and sat, pulled out his phone, and navigated to the new voicemail.

Taking in a breath, he clicked Play and put the phone to his ear.

The first few seconds were silent, the hum of the road audible through the speaker, and Michael furrowed his brow at the thought of Trevor using his phone and driving. It wasn't surprising in the least; Trevor was an awful driver, with little to no regard of pedestrians and even less regard for himself and his car. How his truck even ran after all this time was a mystery to Michael.

A sniff brought Michael back to the message, as Trevor began talking in a slur, "Mike-- Mike, Michael- Michael, hey, you- you-- you turd, answer my fuckin' calls. I've been- I've been doing some--"

A horn sounded, followed by a sharp swear and some colorful language by Trevor as he swore off somebody who was probably following the rules of traffic. After a second or two, Trevor picked up where he last left off.

"Anyway, I've been doin' some thinkin', about what happen'd and I gotta say, Michaeell, you're a reeaaalll piece of shit. You- You make me so damn mad sometimes, and I-- shit, okay, I gotta- I gotta go, I'm gonna-" Trevor gagged and groaned. "Ah shit, okay, Michael, call- call me when you get this, you fffuck. I hate you. Fucker."

And then the message ended, and Michael was left bewildered in the bathroom stall. What did that mean, Trevor had 'been thinking about what happened'? Did that mean he was actually willing to talk about this shit now?

Michael's thumb hovered over the _Call Back_ button, brows furrowed. No. No, he couldn't. Not right now. Not with his family waiting for him.

And so he exited the stall, washed his hands (to keep up appearances, if nothing else), and returned to the table, where things continued as they have been, even if Michael's mind was nowhere in the restaurant and instead on the road, chasing the taillights of a Bodhi pickup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> expect more trevor next chapter. i think. yeah. cuz they're gonna meet and maybe talk? idk they haven't yet, but uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> i mean they almost fucked so we never know.


End file.
